Visit to Uncle Bobby's House
by VictorianChik
Summary: Sequel to Uncle Bobby The boys go to visit Bobby's house and find that helping Bobby out helps them work through more painful issues about Sam, Dean, and Dad. Set after Hollywood Babylon. Corporal punishment in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1 Anticipation

AN: This story takes place after Hollywood Babylon. It contains spoilers for a lot of shows, so if you haven't seen the recent shows, don't read this, I guess. Also, it is a sequel to Uncle Bobby, a story I wrote a few months ago. The narration is no longer in Bobby's POV, but it does include stuff that happened in that story. If you want to read that first, it might be helpful. It's only five chapters long, and I'd love thoughts on both stories as a series.

Disclaimer – Do not own or make money. (Wish I could think of something clever here to say.)

Warning: This story will contain references of corporeal punishment and actual CP in later chapters. If you don't like this sort of thing, stop reading now. All criticism, objects, and whining will be ignored and erased. But to those of you who enjoy my stories, please give me some feedback. I've met a lot of great people to support my stories, and I dedicate this new story to all of you.

And the chapters are a little shorter. I'm winding down from the Spring semester of Grad school, and I don't have that much to say. For the next month until Summer semester starts, I will have more time and be quite verbose, I'm sure. I do want to work on other stories, so I promise you faithful readers that I will return to Hook, Angel, Harry Potter, and LOTR. Thanks for being so patient.

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They were heading away from LA, up towards South Dakoda when Sam started sulking. It began slowly, a sigh here, a huff when Dean changed the music from country to AC/DC, a hot look when Dean flirted with the waitress that night at the bar.

Dean couldn't understand why Sam was so moody. The case in LA had been easy, almost laughable. And they had really lived it up in Hollywood – rubbing shoulders with stars, crashing in a great trailer, and eating all the catered food and expensive lattes. The fact that Dean had scored with the lead actress of the horror film . . . well, that was just a perfect Hollywood ending to a perfect case.

As they had left the set and swung into the Impala, Dean had mentioned to Sam that they should go visit Bobby before the next case.

Sam had given him that wide-eyed surprised look that Sammy did so well. Not that Dean blamed Sam at all. After that mortifying night, neither of them had mentioned what had happened or how they felt or even Bobby's name at all. The morning after they had woken up with Sammy taking up most of the big bed and Dean nearly falling off the edge of the bed. Bobby had come back in as they were dressing with breakfast. He had told them he worked it out with the hotel people and they didn't even make him pay for the TV. The manager had said the thing was so old they were glad to have an excuse to replace it.

Dean and Sam had stood there, sheepish and shame-faced, with Sam wishing he could rub the last bit of soreness out of his rear end. Bobby looked at them with a frown, then told them to get start eating before the food got cold. Bobby had eaten breakfast with them, and he had asked easy questions about where they might go for their next case and did they have everything they needed. Sam had been quiet, but did not look too upset as Dean answered. Then they had packed up the car, and Dean had waited for the awkward goodbye that was sure to follow. When Bobby came towards him, Dean had shut his hand out stoic, muttering a rough, "Bye, Bobby. Thanks for your help."

Sam had gone all mushy, hugging Bobby instead of shaking hands. Dean had feared he would start crying, but they got off without Sam turning on the waterworks. As they drove away, Bobby's last words – "You boys behave yourselves" – ran in their ears, his silent thread of _"Or else"_ reminding them to behave.

They had spoken to him during the problems with the werewolves, and during that case, Dean felt sure they should go visit Bobby once they were done. But Sam had been such a wreck after it, torn up about what he did to Madison, that Dean suggested that they take a lighter case to relax and regroup.

But now that case was finished, and Dean knew they needed to go help Bobby at his house. As they drove towards South Dakato, Dean kept arguing with himself about why they shouldn't have to go help Bobby. After all, Bobby didn't have to pay for the TV, but he did pay for the rooms and for breakfast, and Dean hadn't paid him back. A part of Dean wanted to shrug it off as one hunter helping out another and he would just owe Bobby one, but Dean couldn't convince himself. He knew what Dad would say if he had been there and knew Dean was trying to squirm out of a payment. And knowing Dad, the old man's response would have been harsh and biting, ending with him ordering Dean to do the right thing or suffer that consequence from one very displeased Dad Winchester.

So they were driving to Bobby's house, and Dean pretended like he wasn't the least bit nervous. He kept telling himself that he hadn't done anything wrong lately. Nothing to make Bobby mad, and they would just stay for a weekend, and it would be like three old bachelors hanging out and swapping stories, and man! He hadn't done anything wrong! Why was he so nervous?

Unlike Dean, Sam did not keep his feelings inside. He got moodier with every mile. And everything Dean did to try and distract him or lighten him up only made Sam grouchier. And that night in Nevada at a roadside bar and grill, Sam's mood had not improved.

"Did you get her number or her bra?" Sam sneered as Dean came back to their table after talking with the waitress.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Dean asked as he sat down and took a swing of beer.

"What's the use, Dean?" Sam demanded. "You get their numbers and we leave. You don't call them, you never see them again, why do it? Once this is all over, you plan to look them up again?"

"No, it's a point system thing," Dean explained. "I decide how hot she is and give her a score of one to three. One being cute, two really hot, and three smoking. Then I give myself a point for just getting the number and tag on the points for hotness. I started it one night when Dad wanted me to run three miles with him after supper, and I wanted to get the phone of the girl at the register. Dad looked at her and said he'd give her two points for her cute face and take away five for her irritating laugh. I bet him the running against the phone number, and Dad had to run all by himself. After that, I started the point thing. So far it's been four years, and I'm up to 847 points, and this number," he waved the napkin in Sam's face, "just brought me up to 851. You do the math to figure out how hot she is."

"You are seriously screwed up," Sam shook his head.

"What?" Dean bristled. "I got to have something to do, anything to keep me bored out of my mind on this trips. You have your laptop, I have chick points. Can't imagine what Dad had."

"Probably yelling at us," Sam commented, his face sour and depressed.

"Dude, don't start," Dean warned.

"Start what?" Sam asked, sloshing the contents of his beer bottle morosely.

"You know what I mean," Dean said darkly. "I don't want to arrive fighting. And I don't want to fight while we're there. Man, just – just be cool."

"Cool?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "We're going back to the man that belted us –"

"Dude, sshhh!' Dean hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had heard them.

"- and you want me to be cool?" Sam continued. "Not a chance."

"Keep your voice down," Dean ordered, looking very casual as he sipped his beer. "How you doing?" he smiled at the next table where a bored couple, a man and a woman, had glanced in his direction when he hissed. "Nice night, folks."

"You're such a con," Sam observed. "You try to put on that poker face, but no one's fooled, especially not me."

"Oh, sorry," Dean retorted. "I'll try to see if I can sulk enough to match you. Hey, then maybe they'll call us the Blues Brothers."

"That's so lame," Sam sneered.

"You're lame," Dean retorted. "Now, leave me alone."

"Yeah, cause that will solve everything."

"Nothing is wrong," Dean insisted. "I drove all day long, and I just want to sit here and enjoy my beer, which I paid for by the way and yours, too. But you want to get all pansy and mope around."

"I just want to talk," Sam insisted.

"You always want to talk," Dean growled. "'Dean, tell me what you're feeling.' 'Dean, why aren't you looking all sad and depressed?' 'Dean, why aren't you crying?' This isn't a chick flick. I don't have to cry every five minutes."

"Yeah, it's _Rambo_," Sam snipped. "Or _Die_ _Hard_ or any movie where they run around shooting and blowing things up. Maybe I should just say 'Dude,' burp, and go get that waitress's phone number. That's what you like to do at the end of a long day."

"Better than sitting around, whining like a pussy – cat," Dean added when he saw the couple look at him. It figured that in a roadside bar they would find seats next to a couple of old-fashioned prudes. Always his luck.

"Whatever," Sam shrugged. "I'm going back to the room."

"No, you're not," Dean ordered. "You're going to sit there, finish your beer, and pretend like you're having a good time. You are not going off to sulk alone."

"I can sulk alone if I want to," Sam told him sharply.

"You do that, and I'll take a belt to you myself," Dean said angrily.

The couple actually jumped at his words, the woman giving a small gasp as the man looked on in disapproval.

"What?" Dean challenged them. "He's my little brother. I can belt him if I want to, and believe me, he deserves it."

"Dean!" Sam looked absolutely murderous though his ears were turning slightly pink. "I'm so sorry," he apologized to the shocked couple. "My brother is drunk already."

"I can still knock you across the room," Dean retorted.

"Is there a problem?" a waitress approached their table, and not a hot waitress.

Sam raised his eyebrows at the middle-aged, stout woman, a hint of smile playing on his face as he turned to Dean with a questioning look in his eyes.

"This isn't her," Dean growled before answering the waitress. "No, we were just discussing something. We'll finish up here and leave."

"Good," the woman announced. "You boys don't need to be stirring up trouble."

"Nice taste," Sam observed as the waitress moved away. "Worth every one of those four points."

"Shut up," Dean snarled as he drank the last of his beer. The couple in the next table kept shooting them odd looks, and Dean knew he wouldn't get a moment of peace in the bar.

"Fine," Dean clunked his bottle on the table, "let's go back to the room. But if we're turning in this early, you can't stay up half the night watching TV."

"Dude," Sam looked at him, hurt in those big eyes. "I've told you – nightmares."

"Ha," Dean scoffed as he stood and scooted his chair back. "You better stop dragging around all mopey, or nightmares will be the least of your worries."

The motel room was clean at least, two small beds at one side. Sam dropped into a chair; it was a small wooden chair from the sixties, probably used to hold small suitcases or for little wives on road trips to Las Vegas to perch on back in the day. But when Sam's weight hit the chair, all bone and solid muscles, the chair gave a groan.

"You'll break it," Dean warned.

"Will not," Sam replied crossly. He reached for the remote to the TV, but Dean gave him a look.

"What?' Sam complained. "I just want to check up on the weather."

"Not a cloud in sight, I'm sure," Dean snatched away the remote before Sam could react.

"Hey!" Sam objected.

"Find something else to do," Dean told him, "or I'll make you watch whatever horror movie is on, and then rehash the entire plots of _Saw I, II_, and _III_ until you're tired enough to sleep."

"You suck," Sam mumbled. But he didn't make a move for the remote.

Dean set the remote on top of the TV and reached for the thick tattered map of the US they kept in their car. The cover of the map book had long worn away, and the pages had been opened so many times they were ripping out.

"Straight driving, only two stops," Dean mused as he traced the road on the map, "and I say we can be there by tomorrow night, maybe eight or even seven-thirty."

"Great," Sam sighed, letting his breath out heavily.

Dean gave him a sideways look before turning back to the map. "We have to leave early tomorrow. Think we can get off by eight if we stop for coffee?"

"Fine," Sam sighed again.

Dean slapped the map down on the rickety table. An hour ago, Sam wouldn't shut up, and now that they're alone, he wanted pout in silence. "Dude, just spit it out."

"I don't want to go," Sam burst out, obvious needing no further urging. "I don't want to go see Bobby."

"And why not?"

"De-e-ean," Sam sounded like he had at nine when Dean made him go to bed instead of staying up to eating popcorn while watching the end of _Star Wars_.

"Well?" Dean crossed his arms.

"What do you want me to say?" Sam held out his arms. "That I feel all stupid and embarrassed about what happened? That I don't know how to look Bobby in the eye ever again? Dude, he took a belt to us. A belt!"

"You rather he'd have hit us?" Dean asked as he flopped down on the bed.

"Yeah, smack on the back of the head I could have taken," Sam admitted. "But he was way too – too –"

"Dad-like?" Dean supplied.

"Yeah," Sam nodded fervently. "How can you stand that?"

Dean shrugged.

"No, man," Sam insisted. "Bobby just steps up and does what Dad would have done, and it doesn't bother you."

"It bothers me," Dean said quietly.

"You don't show it."

"It bothers me," Dean insists. "But it reminds me that Dad isn't here. Dad isn't here to keep up in line or yell at us. And then I remember why he isn't here. And it reminds me that I need to keep working, keep doing what I do best and improve on my skills and my hunting. Dad's not here to protect us – then I need to step up and do a better job. So it doesn't really make me mad."

"Yeah, it only reminds me that I got treated like a little kid," Sam groused.

"Dude," Dean raised an eyebrow, "Dad would have never belted us when we were kids. Spanked us, sure, but what we got from Bobby was not a child's punishment."

"It was humiliating," Sam said quietly.

"You might have felt embarrassed, but it wasn't meant to humiliate you, and you know it," Dean said adamantly. He got up to go take a shower, but Sam leaned back in the chair angrily.

Unfortunately, at that moment, the small chair gave up the ghost. With a creak, then a sharp crack, the back legs broke off, and Sam went sprawling backwards, hitting the corner of the bed before toppling to the floor.

"Sam!" Dean ran towards him, but Sam rolled over and picked himself up off the ground.

"I'm okay," Sam assured him.

The same could not be said for the chair. It lay on the floor in three broken pieces with lots of little splinters.

"Dude," Dean began, about to make some smart comment about how they broke everything in motel rooms now, maybe even make a shot about his brother's height, that he was getting pudgy.

But Sam snarled and stomped towards the bathroom. He shut the door behind him louder than necessary, and Dean could hear him muttering curses while he turned the shower on.

Dean jumped back on the bed and lay back. As he stared up at the ceiling, he reflected that it would be a very long weekend. They were still seven-hundred miles away from Bobby's place, and already Sam had lost his temper. Just great.


	2. Chapter 2 Arrival

AN: Finally got around to writing this. Hope you all like and I look forward to hearing from you. Grad school with two jobs is insane, but I will try to keep writing.

Disclaimer: Did not own, do not own, will never own, have no money.

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The next morning dawned bright and cheerful, which only served to annoy Dean further. They packed up without talking, Sam throwing his things into his bag a little more violently than he needed to. Dean went down to the coffeehouse and got them both tall coffees, even getting Sam the special vanilla kind he liked. Sam took the coffee without a word and swung into the Impala, slamming the door shut so fast the hinges barely had time to squeak.

Dean lifted his face up to the sky, silently asking for help from some unseen Divine force. It would take every bit of strength of the Almighty to change Sam's mood that morning. Then Dean also got into the car. He closed the door, put his own coffee in one of the cup holders, started the engine, and began to back out of the parking space.

Sam stared straight ahead, an angry stubborn look on his usually kind face. They made it twenty miles from the hotel before the first huff came. At first barely recognizable, could have been a heavy exhale, almost a sigh, but Dean knew a Sammy huff when he heard one.

Dean gripped the wheel tight to keep himself from snorting a laugh as he remembered times when they had been little and Sam had huffed. Around the age of four, Sam had started, at first just giving little huffs when he was tired or hungry or Dad was too busy to play with him. Dean hadn't really noticed at first, but the huffs grew longer and louder and more exaggerated as Sam grew. By the time he reached eight, the huffs sounded like he was trying to blow out all his birthday candles in one breath. Their meaning varied: sometimes "I'm mad at you and not speaking to you." Sometimes "I'm mad at you, but I want to talk to you but I won't be the first to speak." Sometimes "I'm mad at you and I'm punishing you by huffing."

Dad had let it go on, ignoring it for the most part, until Sammy huffed once too much in a single evening before Dad was leaving on a hunt. Dean could still remember standing in the doorway, listening to Dad's instructions, and Sammy huffed loudly. Dad had turned towards him and held up a warning finger. "One more huff, Sammy, and I'll give you something to huff about!"

Sammy had looked at their father defiantly and given a loud huff. Dean had stood in the door uncomfortably as Dad had dealt with Sammy's problem. For a whole minute, there had been no huffing, only the sound of Dad's hard hand against Sam's bottom and Sam's howls of protest. Once the spanking was over, Sam had cried as he sat in Dad's lap and then pouted for the rest of the evening, but the huffing had stopped.

But now they were both adults, and apparently Sam had caught the huffing bug again.

"How 'bout some music?" Dean suggested, reaching for his favorite tape.

"No," Sam ground out, still staring straight ahead.

Dean almost pointed out that he was driving and he got to pick the music, but decided against and said nothing.

They drove another thirty miles; Sam kept huffing. Dean pressed his lips together, determined not to be the one who broke the silence. If wasn't fair – he always had to be the peacemaker. Between Dad and Sam, always trying to calm both of them down, try to get everyone to work together and get along and not get upset. If he had to do it again, Dean thought he might have just let the two of them battle it out. What would have happened that night of chasing vampires if he had let Dad and Sam duke it out on the side of the road? Sam might have gotten a few punches in before Dad wrestled him down and beat the crap out of him. Still, at least they would have gotten the aggression out, gotten rid of all that hostility and cold words and angry silences –

Sam huffed.

"I swear," Dean found himself yelling, "you huff one more time, and I'll stop this car and beat the rest of those damn huffs out of you."

Sam turned towards him, but Dean refused to look away from the road. "You heard me, Sam."

"I can't even huff now!" Sam challenged. "You want me to sit here and be silent the whole trip. Well, I've had it with all your crap. You can't tell me what to do. Pull over and let me out."

"What?" Dean stared at him.

"You heard me. I've had with you, and I don't want to go see Bobby, so let me out. Tell him I'm on a hunt, or I've gone to see a friend. I don't care what you tell him, just let me out."

Dean stared in amazement at him for a moment, and then he cut the car to the right, pulling off the road. They were on a two-lane winding road that ran towards the highway without another car in sight, and Dean guided the Impala to a stop on the gravel.

Sam looked at him, amazed that Dean would even consider stopping. He had been expecting a long rant for even asking such a thing, and Sam himself wasn't sure if his threat had been anything more than another way to rile his brother up.

Dean killed the engine and ordered "Get out," before stepping out of the car himself. Sam slowly opened the door and dragged his long frame out of the car, not sure whether to grab his bag or not.

Dean strode around to his side and waited until Sam was out before saying, "Okay let's do this."

And Dean raised his fisted hands in front of his face, bracing himself for a punch.

"You're going to hit me?" Sam demanded in a voice higher than he would have liked.

"No, we're going to fight," Dean said calmly.

"What?" Sam's eyes went wide.

"Yeah, we're going to hash it out right here on the side of the road, you and me. That way when we get there, we can honestly say we no longer have a problem with each other."

"Dude, are you crazy?" Sam demanded. "We're going to fight now? Now, before we go to see Bobby? He was mad that we were pushing and shoving last time, and now you want to have a real fight? Are you suicidal?"

"You decide," Dean shrugged, still keeping his fists up. "We can show up with or without bruises, but you are not showing up with an attitude. So decide now."

Sam stood, facing his brother, for a few seconds that seemed to drag on and on. Then Sam sighed and turned back towards the car.

"That's what I thought," Dean muttered.

Sam whirled back around, his eyes flashing. And he drove his fist into Dean's jaw.

Dean stumbled back as his world exploded into rivets of pains, streaking across his face. Part of him was aware that Sam hadn't put his full weight behind the punch (or he would be lying on the ground), but another part of him demanded blood.

With a roar, he launched himself at Sam, and the fight began.

The fight was a bit more violent than the one in the hotel room that resulted in the broken TV, but at the same time, it was not as savage as it might have been were they fighting an actual monster or demon. They scuffled around on the gravel, Sam's hair got pulled a lot (making him holler much more loudly than if he had been punched), and Dean's shirt ripped right down the middle. Sam got in two punches to Dean's stomach, and Dean had head-butted Sam once when they tripped on loose gravel and both banged into the side of the Impala.

"Touch my baby and die!" Dean yelled.

Sam slumped in the gravel, leaning his head back against the car. "Okay, okay, I give," he panted. "Fight – over."

"If you dented my car-!" Dean growled.

"Oh, great," Sam snapped. "You start a fight, throw me into the car, and then I get blamed. Typical."

"Well, I hope you feel better now," Dean rubbed his jaw gingerly. "I'll need dental work, but don't worry about me. "

"Maybe they'll wire your jaw shut," Sam said snidely.

Dean gave him a dirty look before knocking his shoe against Sam's knee. "Get up and get back in the car. We still have five hours of driving left."

"Fine," Sam stood and brushed his dusty hands on his jeans. "But I'm telling Bobby when we get there. And I'll say it's all your fault, too."

"Bitch," Dean shook his head as he got in the car.

But as they drove on, there was no more huffing.

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Later that afternoon, they approached the short road that led to Bobby's house. Sam had fallen asleep after lunch. Dean had not told him that the coffee he had bought was decaf, and at lunch, Dean had urged Sam to have beer instead of a coke. Hence, Sam had fallen asleep almost immediately after lunch. Dean didn't mind. He drove on as smoothly as he could, easing a cassette into the player and keeping AC/DC as low as he possibly could.

The mid-west was pleasant scenery as it rushed by, and he enjoyed the long stretches of land under the looming blue sky. His jaw hurt a little from Sam's punch, and he was still mad about his torn shirt (one of his favorite blue one!), but he let the day wear on in peaceful silence.

Sam didn't stir until they turned on the last road to Bobby's house. Two miles to the house, Sam lifted his head up with a "Huh? What's happening?"

"We're almost there," Dean said, swerving slightly to miss a pothole. "Enjoy your nap, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Ha-ha," Sam said grumpily. He swiped the back on his hand over his face, resisting the urge to rub his eyes with his dirty hands. "How far?"

"Another mile," Dean said casually. "Ready to see 'Uncle Bobby' again?"

"Fine," Sam said heavily, but it wasn't a huff.

The house looked the same, wooden and quiet against the edge of a forest, Bobby's truck parked to one side.

Dean pulled the Impala beside Bobby's truck and slowly turned the engine. He looked at Sam, and for the first time in the last two days Sam saw hesitation on his older brother's face. Dean didn't make a move to open the door or even pull the keys out of the ignition.

"Maybe he hasn't seen us yet," Sam whispered, trying not to move his head. "We can still leave now – we can just go and not come back."

Dean looked longingly back at the road, then sighed as he pulled the keys out. "Let's go. He's waiting on the porch."

Sam felt like it took every bit of his strength and determination to open his door and get out of the car. To make himself walk the whole thirty feet to the porch where Bobby was standing seemed like running through a mile of three feet of thick mud. He couldn't even look up at the man; Sam kept his eyes on the ground as he trailed after Dean.

Dean – well, you had to admire Dean's courage. He put on his friendly face, marched right up the four steps to the top of the porch, and thrust his hand out, saying, "Hey, Bobby, how's it going?"

Bobby nodded as he shook Dean's hand. "Good, good. Sam?"

Sam glanced up quickly to see Bobby's offered hand, and he grasped it for a second, mumbling something along the lines of "Good to see you again."

"You boys have any trouble getting here?"

"No, sir," Dean said brightly, determined to be cheerful. "Just drove right along, not much traffic at all. I see the house is still standing. Truck running okay?"

"Yeah, had to do some work on the transmission," Bobby jerked his head towards the truck. "But she's all right now."

"Good," Dean nodded along. "Good to keep her up. I keep my baby purring right along. Keep her right, or she lets you down every time, right Sam?"

Sam gave his brother an incredulous look, astounded at Dean's prattle when they when standing not four feet from the man who had taken a belt to both of them. "Sure," Sam found himself standing, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Well, come on in," Bobby stepped towards the door and held it open to let them in.

Dean strode right into the house, but Sam dragged his feet forward, casting one last forlorn look back at the car. Then Bobby shut the door, sealing them into the house.

"You can put your coats there," Bobby motioned to a few hooks on the wall. "And your keys can go on the table there, where I keep mine."

Sam felt a flash of fear run through him as Dean put the keys down. What if Bobby took the key? What if he hid them? What if he and Dean were stuck there forever, trapped in the house?

"Hey, Sam," Bobby put a hand on Sam's arm.

Sam leapt back and tripped over the edge of the rug. He tumbled to the ground, knocking his foot against a nearby chair.

"Whoa!" Bobby's eyes widened. "You're a skittish as a colt. You okay?"

"I'm fine!" Sam declared in a voice that was higher than he would have liked.

Bobby glanced at Sam and then at Dean and then back at Sam. "What's going on? You boys been fighting again?"

"He started it," Sam, still on the floor, thrust an accusing finger out at his brother. "He stopped the car and said we had to fight!"

Bobby turned to Dean, raising a wary eyebrow.

"Wasn't like that," Dean tried to give a nonchalant laugh which sounded like he had been breathing laughing gas. "I thought we could run off some energy before we got here – this one here," nodding at Dean, "needs to go for a run before he's cooped up, you know."

"So you fought," Bobby made it more of a statement than a question. "That how you got the ripped shirt, Dean?"

"Yeah, and I hit him," Sam reluctantly rose to his feet. "But he provoked me, just keep pushing."

"He was being a total drama queen," Dean finally lost the casual attitude. "He has been whining for forever!"

"Dean yelled at an old couple in the bar," Sam accused.

"Sam broke a chair in the motel," Dean shot back.

"Dean hits on all the slutty waitresses!"

"Sam huffed seventeen times on the way here!"

The two brothers stood there, glaring at each other.

"You two through?" Bobby asked dryly. "Or you want to keep squabbling some more? If not, why don't I show you wear you'll be staying, and you can bring your stuff in and we can have an early supper?"

Dean and Sam blinked at each other, surprised, before both saying, "Sure."

"Unless you want me to get involved?" Bobby turned to face both of them.

"No, sir," Dean replied while Sam said hastily, "No, no really."

"Good, then I'll pretend I didn't here any of it," Bobby replied before he headed for the hall.

In a way, it felt almost anticlimactic to follow Bobby up the stairs to a small bedroom where two twin beds stood, covered in patchwork quilt. They had stayed in the room before when they were little, and there was something calming about the room that spoke of rainy days spent reading on the beds or the wooden blocked tucked in the corner where they had built a castle with a guard tower and a dungeon.

"Looks great," Dean gave his approval.

"Glad you like it," Bobby said with a straight face. "So go get your bags, and meet me in the kitchen so you can tell me what you want for supper."

The brothers went back to the car to pull their stuff out, and Sam tried to avoid looking at Dean.

"Go ahead and say it," Sam finally muttered.

"Say what?" Dean asked with the same affability he had shown Bobby.

"Don't be a jerk," Sam told him, slamming the car door shut, his duffel bag over his shoulder. "We looked like idiots."

"Yeah, but we always look like idiots," Dean shrugged. "We're not exactly the kings of cool. Well, you aren't, at least."

"I didn't mean to say all that," Sam scuffed his shoe against the driveway. "It just came out, and I thought he would jump all over us. But he didn't."

"Maybe breaking TVs brings out the big bad in him," Dean joked as they head for the house.

"So everything's okay?" Sam looked anxious.

"Dude, it's Bobby," Dean told him. "He's on our side. Yeah, he got tired of us last time, but we really pushed the envelope. You know Dad wouldn't have put up with all that, and why should we expect Bobby to take it?"

"Yeah, I guess," but Sam did not look entirely convinced.

An hour later, they were eating hot stew, bread, and beer around Bobby's wooden table like old friends. Bobby was asking questions about the last case, and Dean was happy to talk about the Hollywood case rather than Madison, careful to point out everything they did right on the case and leaving out the parts about hooking up with the actress. Bobby seemed interested, giving questions to prompt Dean to tell more and more, and even Sam chimed in every now and then with details or interesting facts that Dean had forgotten.

Bobby kept passing them food, filling up Dean's bowl once and Sam's bowl twice and offering them the hot brown bread and butter until the whole loaf was gone. Bobby even offered them a second beer, promising them coffee later in the evening. After supper, they all cleaned up together, Sam washing the dishes and Dean drying. Then they got coffee and slices of fresh pound cake and sat by the fire, talking and laughing over Bobby's droll stories. Bobby seemed to know more people and all their stories than anyone else, and he had a way of telling a story that made the people look clueless and endearing at the same time. Dean hoped that he and Sam did not appear the same way when Booby told other people about them. But he didn't want to say anything; Sam was finally relaxing, clearly enjoying Bobby's tales.

"Well, boys," Bobby said once all the coffee and cake was gone, "it's past ten, and we'll be up early tomorrow, so why don't we call it a night? Think you two can go to bed without squabbling or huffing?"

Sam scowled, but nodded along, and they both hiked upstairs. And Dean, feeling very charitable, let Sam take a shower first.

It seemed like they had just laid down when they awoke to morning light and Bobby knocking on the door to wake them up. After a good breakfast of pancakes and bacon (really, who guessed Bobby was such a good cook?), Bobby announced the list of chores.

"Right," Bobby set his glass down, "I got some logs that need to be chopped. I got them into short logs, but I need them split four ways and put in the wood stack. Got two axes there," he motioned towards the door where two shiny axes leaned, "all sharpened and ready. You two up to it?"

"Sure," Dean jumped up. "Me and Long Arms here will have it done in no time."

"There's no hurry," Bobby cautioned. "Take your time – don't rush it."

"Please," Dean shouldered his axe, "we'll have those suckers chopped in no time."

Bobby shook his head as Sam took the other axe, and then Bobby led them out of the house. "Logs are behind the house," Bobby said as they walked.

"I hope you didn't expect us to just chop logs," Dean joked. "That will take, what – an hour? We were expecting to stay a few days at least."

"Yeah, we were," Sam added.

They rounded the corner of the house, and Dean and Sam both stumbled to stop. Before them in Bobby's wide backyard, round logs were scattered. It looked at if twenty trees had been cut, and some the logs were as round as the tires on the Impala.

Dean looked at Sam, and Sam looked at Dean, but neither could make himself look at Bobby for fear he would see the overwhelmed look in their eyes.

"Got a few logs," Bobby admitted.

"Sure do," Dean said rather dryly. "We'll try to get it done by, uh – tonight?"

"Take your time," Bobby repeated. "Take breaks, and watch out for blisters. And if you two need to fight it out every now and then, put the axes down 'fore you start. And come back to the house when you get thirsty."

As Bobby walked away, Dean glanced at Sam to see his younger brother frozen in place, round eyes glued to the spread of logs that seemed endless.

"Well, Sammy," Dean walked over to the first log, a smaller one, and stood it up on one end, "whoever finishes first gets the other's beer tonight."

"Finishes first?" Sam raised his eyebrows. "There must be a hundred logs here, two hundred!"

"Probably," Dean raised the axe and brought it down in one swift motion, severing the log in half. "And you're already behind."


	3. Chapter 3 Antsy

AN: Okay, I know it's been forever since I updated this, but I working on finishing stories this summer before I start new ones. (Please keep the scoffing laughter to a minimum). Some of you may need to read the beginning of this story and its sequel all over again to remember what happend, and for that, I apologize.

Disclaimed: I don't own and I really want to know what happens next season!

--

As Dean squinted at the yard through a blur of sweat, he reflected that chopping logs had to the worst work in the world. Worse than a painting a house or training or even that awful military course Dad had made him run once, the one where he had to crawl on his hands and knees under barb wire and then jump over a high wall at the end, Dad making him do it a hundred times to work on his timing.

But chopping logs – Dean had no idea it could be so awful, so draining and exhausting. After all, it was just raising an axe above his head and letting it drop. But he had to raise it really high and bring it down with enough force to break through the logs. By the twentieth log, Dean would have sworn he was trying to cut through petrified woods, like that place out west, the Petrified Forest that Dad had thought demons had made.

They had driven out there, just him and Dad when Sam was in college. Rather than go out to the middle of the desert and investigate the actual logs, Dad had decided to start in the tourist center. They had talked to the people that worked there, gone into the gift shop, and even seen the movie about how the rocks were formed. The scientists had come to the conclusion that evolution over a million years had caused the wood to turn to stone. By the end of the movie Dean had thought that he himself had turned to stone, sitting there watching it drone on and on.

"Hey, Dean? Dean!"

Dean jerked awake, coming back from the Petrified Forest to Bobby's backyard where Sam was yelling at him. "Yeah, what?"

"You blanked out on me," Sam accused.

"I did not," Dean shifted his weight, keeping the head of his axe on the ground but balancing the other end with his palm. "I was thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," Sam advised. "I know it's hard for you."

"Bitch," Dean shot at him, but he couldn't help smiling. "Okay, how many logs left?"

"Dude, we haven't even made a dent in them," Sam gestured to the yard where all the logs covered the worn grass and short shrub. "We've chopped about fifty, and I don't see that much of a difference."

"There has to be," Dean looked around the yard, turning about to see the whole thing. They had started at the edge and worked their way into the yard, but the space they had cleared barely made any room in the whole yard.

"I was wrong – there must be five hundred logs here," Sam threw out his arms in despair. "We've been working for almost three hours. That's a rate of twenty logs an hour from us combined. That means it would take us twenty-five hours to finish this!"

"Ah, screw you and your college math," Dean snarled.

"College math?" Sam retorted. "That's like fifth-grade math."

"We're not fighting," Dean tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "We got to save our energy."

"My hands hurt," Sam complained.

"Such a girl," Dean shook his head. But his own hands were aching, too, probably from griping the axe handle too tight.

"You think we can ask Bobby for gloves?" Sam ventured.

"Oh, yeah, that's a great idea. Go him whining about blisters. What time is it?"

Sam walked over to the stump where they had put all their stuff. The spring morning had been cold, and they had started out to chop in coats. The coats were soon tossed on the stump along with their long sleeved shirts, and both brothers stood in tee-shirts soaked with sweat. Sam had put his watch on the stump, and he picked it up now to glance at the time.

"Almost eleven," Sam reported, setting the watch back down by an odd-looking rock.

"Okay, we work for another hour," Dean advised. "Then we inside for lunch or water or blister cream or whatever."

San grimaced, but said, "Fine."

The axe felt like iron as Dean lifted it and brought it crashing down on the log. He liked the noise the wood made as it split, a crunching, ripping noise that boomed over the yard. And even though Sam was taller, Dean thought his axe made more noise than Sam's.

They worked in silence, splitting the logs into small pieces and then carrying them to the growing woodpile. It felt good to carry the logs and take a break from swinging the axe, but each time he returned to chopping, Dean found it harder and harder to raise the axe.

Sam was working at the same rate, maybe a little slower because he kept trying to find a place on the handle that didn't hurt his hands. Dean rolled his eyes and kept working.

The sun rose high in the sky, but Dean kept on, refusing to ask Sam to see what time it was again. His back hurt, a dull sort of ache that pinched between his shoulder blades. Dean's arms hurt, too, along with his hands and strangely enough the back of his neck.

He approached a particularly large log and took a deep breath. The axe weighed a hundred-million pounds, and Dean tried not to groan as he lifted it. His arms felt weak, and even as he brought the axe down, he knew it was not hard enough. Sure enough, the blade of the axe thudded into the wood but did not split it. The handle jerked in Dean's hand, and he winced at the jarring impact.

Perhaps he might have been fine and pulled out the axe to try again or simply announced he was done, but before he could anything, Sam laughed. Not a cruel laugh, just that short scoffing noise Sam made when Dean did something he considered dumb.

Dean whirled to face him. Sam had the axe resting on the ground, head-down the same way Dean had been holding it earlier. Sam opened his mouth to say something, maybe something mean or something kind or just something casual, but he never got to say the words.

"Agh!" with a yell, Dean charged at him.

Sam opened his eyes wide, but Dean hit him at the waist, knocking him back to the ground.

"You're – crazy!" Sam shouted as he tumbled back on the grass with Dean on top of him. "I didn't do anything."

"You did plenty," Dean snarled. He ground his hands down on Sam's shoulders, pushing him into the ground, and then pulled back to stand up.

But Sam had reached his breaking point. Yelling, he grabbed Dean and threw him down on the ground.

For the next few minutes, they fought/wrestled on the ground, not really hurting each other but not really playing nice either.

Dean got shoved into a log and Sam nearly cracked his head on the axe head, but they managed to keep out danger as they rolled to the edge of the yard where it was more dirt and mud than grass. Dean had Sam face down – he was not sure how he got the taller boy there, but Sam's face was smushed down in the dirt and he was hollering for Dean to let him.

"No!" Dean yelled. "Eat the dirt – eat it!"

"Boys," the bellow came from behind them.

Immediately, Dean jumped up to face Bobby, but Sam just rolled over the grass, too tired to stand up, flopping his arms out in exhaustion.

"That bit about fighting was just a joke," Bobby frowned. "I didn't expect you to start brawling in the yard."

"Sorry," Dean rubbed the back of his sore neck. "Just kind of got carried away."

"He started it," Sam said from the ground.

"I told you to take breaks," Bobby went on, displeased. "I have water and ice lemonade for you – I didn't expect you to try to work four hours straight."

"Sorry," Dean said again. "We weren't making a lot of progress. It got harder as we went on."

"How many times did you sharpen the axes?"

Dean glanced at Sam who glared back at him.

"Uh –" Dean stalled for time.

"You didn't even sharpen the axes?" Bobby shook his head. "I put a whetting stone on that stump," he pointed to the stump where their coats lay, "for you to sharpen the axe at least once. Some the logs are damp – blade gets dull pretty quick."

"I told him we should, but he refused to listen," Dean hedged.

"Did not!" Sam yelled from the ground, still lying there.

"Kids – what are you going to do?" Dean shrugged. "We'll come in now and start again after lunch."

"Good," Bobby crossed his arms, giving Dean a stern look. "And next time save your energy for the work."

"Sure thing," Dean grinned. He headed for the axes, planning to put them away until later when he would sharpen them first thing. The thought of food did sound good, and the mention of lemonade made his mouth water.

He had taken only two steps when he heard Sam shout out. Whirling around, Dean froze as he saw his brother.

Sam had jumped to his feet. He was jerking around, slapping his hands at his torso, yelling as he jumped. A moment later, Dean saw the movement on his shirt and arms, hundreds of red little dots blurring together.

Sam was screaming, more from pain than fear. Bobby rushed forward to grab the writhing young man, pulling him forward in the grass. In a quick flash, Bobby ripped Sam's tee-shirt.

"Hurry," Bobby ordered. "We'll hose them off. Dean, go turn on the water."

Dean raced towards the house before he could even think what he was doing. But one thing was crystal clear.

Sam had rolled over into a fire ant hill.

--

"It could be worse," Bobby noted as he stirred the paste of baking soda and water in small bowl. "They mostly bit your chest. Didn't have quite enough time to go any lower."

Sam made a low whining noise in reply. Stripped down to just his boxers with his hair still wet, he was straddled over a chair backwards. He clutched the back of the chair, waiting for Bobby to treat the bites on his back which were far more numerous than those on his chest.

"Aren't – aren't you supposed to put that antibiotic stuff on there?" Dean gestured to the red, bumpy skin.

"No, cortisone works best, but I'm out of it," Bobby explained. "Baking soda and water will take most of the sting out, but it will be a few days before the bites clear up altogether."

"Should we give him a beer? Whiskey?" Dean couldn't take his eyes off Sammy's back. Sam must have been bitten over three hundred times. Dean could barely see any normal skin from all the red bites.

"No, some ibuprofen will do," Bobby said as he gathered some of the paste on a clean, smooth cloth. "Alcohol will just worse the pain. All right, hold still."

Sam braced himself for the first application of the paste, but when Bobby smeared the first of it on, Sam jerked forward. "Ah-ah," he arched his back trying to get away from the cloth. "No, no, it hurts too much."

"Just bear with me, kid," Bobby kept rubbing it on. "It just hurts for a second."

Sam looked like he didn't quite believe Bobby, but he held onto the chair and did not move. As Bobby moved up to coat his shoulders, Sam finally started to relax.

"You're right," Sam admitted. "It doesn't hurt as much as it did. I want to scratch though."

"No scratching," Bobby told him firmly. "One I get this on, I'll find you a long sleeve shirt to wear. Something cotton, that won't rub but will keep the paste from coming off."

"How did they get on him so quickly?" Dean asked, still standing a few back. "I mean one moment we were rolling around, and the next, they were all over him."

"They just move fast. And since Sam has been working, he was probably sweaty and didn't feel them until they started biting."

"I'm sorry, man," Dean started to apologize, but Sam shook his head.

"No, we were both goofing around."

"Get him some water," Bobby told Dean.

It took nearly thirty minutes to get the paste all over Sam. He tried to spread the stuff on his stomach himself, but it hurt to move his arms that much. Bobby spread it out, but when he started on Sam's sides, Sam was overcome with the pain and ticklish sensations, and he begged Bobby to stop.

"He's got to finish," Dean told him. "Otherwise you'll be hurting for days. Come on, it will be over in a few seconds."

"Easy for you to say," Sam growled. "You didn't get jumped by your brother and shoved to the ground and then rolled in an ant pile and then bitten until your skin is on fire. It's burning and the paste stuff is cold, and it really hurts."

"Okay," Dean sat across the small table from him. Any other time he would have laughed – his younger, 6'4 brother straddling a chair backwards, bare chest smeared with white paste while he clung to the chair back and complained. But he could see the pain in his brother's eyes, the same eyes that had looked up to him for so many years.

"Give me your hands," Dean stretched his own arms across the table.

Same blinked, but then reached his hands out. Dean grabbed them, holding onto Sam's wrists.

"Okay, you grab my wrists, too," Dean directed. "And while he finishes up, you squeeze as hard as you like."

Dean felt Sam's strong fingers dig into his wrists. They were tight, and Bobby had not even started applying the stuff yet. Dean was afraid Bobby might say something about Sam being childish or roll his eyes even though Sam could not see him.

But Bobby only said, "Okay, right side first."

Dean felt it the moment Bobby applied the paste to Sam's right side. Sam jerked up a few inches and dug his fingers into Dean's wrists. Sam had his lips pressed together – whether to keep from screaming or laughing, Dean could not tell.

As Bobby started up Sam's side, higher and higher on his ribs, Sam's face screwed up in pain. Dean wanted to laugh (he'd forgotten how ticklish Sam had been as a child and apparently still was as an adult), and from the face Sam was making, you'd think he was being tortured.

"Ah!" a small, high yelp escaped Sam's lips as Bobby swiped right under his armpit. Bobby did roll his eyes at that, but Dean found that he himself was unable to laugh. Sam's grip was getting unbearable around his wrists, crunching like a vice.

Bobby must have hit a sensitive nerve because suddenly Sam yanked back, nearly pulling Dean's arms out of their sockets.

"Ow!" Dean growled. "No, you don't."

He pulled back, making Sam leaned forward against the chair back, Sam's arms out on the table.

"Come on, Bobby, finish it," Dean ordered. "I got him. Get that stuff on him while I still have my arms."

"This is all your fault," Sam accused, the first sign of tears rimming his eyes. "You have no idea how much this hurts – Oh! Not there, Bobby."

Bobby, who had moved to the other side, hastily smeared the paste on, going as fast as he could while Sam twisted and writhed in Dean's grasp. In a way, it almost seemed like an exorcism. Dean though the bites could be the demon, Sam was the host, and Bobby was the exorcist while Dean tried to control the physical raging of the possessed host.

"And done," Bobby stepped back.

Sam slumped against the table breathing hard. Dean pulled his hands free, wincing at the red marks around his wrists. He rubbed the marks gently, commenting, "Okay, that's done. What next?"

"Nothing," Bobby said. "We'll put him in a shirt, get him to rest, keep him from scratching. He needs to drink a lot of water. And stay out of the sun. You'll be on your own this afternoon, Dean. You knock out some more logs and Sam can help me clean up my library."

"Sounds fair," Dean admitted though he was not looking forward to chopping all by himself that afternoon. But he felt guilty about Sam – Dean knew what ant piles looked like and he should have noticed them before pushing Sam into one.

Bobby carried the bowl of paste back to the sink and then he turned to face the brothers. "Either of you do something so foolish again, and I'll tan both your hides."

Dean felt his face flush red, but Sam protested, "I'm the one that got bitten."

"And if I have to sort you two out again, I'll make those red bites feel like puppy dog nips," Bobby threatened. "Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Dean and Sam muttered together. Sam tried to look rebellious, but covered in white paste, he did not quite pull it off and looked more sulky than defiant.

"Good," Bobby stated. "Dean, go get the axes and sharpen them while I get lunch ready. Sam, I had a white shirt hanging in the laundry area that you can wear for today."

Dean started for the door, and Sam rose shakily, trying not to shake off the drying paste.

Bobby looked Sam over. "You should be all right. At least, until we put more paste on tonight."

Sam shot Dean a horrified look, but Dean was running for the door. He made it outside before Sam could protest, and Dean didn't stop until he reached the yard and grabbed both of the axes to sharpen.


End file.
